


Pushing Daises

by femmelesbian



Category: Kuroshitsuji : The Most Beautiful DEATH in the World - Iwasaki/Mori/Mari, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, Murder Mystery, Pushing Daises - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2020-12-28 15:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmelesbian/pseuds/femmelesbian
Summary: Eric Slingby can bring people back from the dead, and the idea of forever doesn’t seem quite as lonely.(Placeholder title!! Based on the show pushing daisies)





	1. The Terms and Conditions, The Past, and The Present

Eric Slingby has a gift.

Well, gift is a strange word, really- it’s not really been given to him by anyone, and it’s not really a talent either. However, it must be acknowledged that, aside from being convenient (if incorrect), it does also sound a lot more impressive than “Eric Slingby can do something that’s around one part cool and three parts terrifying.”

And so, that’s what I’ll say.

Eric Slingby has a gift. 

He discovered said gift in his early thirties under, quite possibly, the worst circumstances available to him at the time. His wife had been sickly and taken a turn in the night. She died that morning in her home, in her husband’s care. Eric had held her hand- anything to ease the uneasable- and just like that, she was back; blinking, breathing, walking, talking.

And for one single minute, everything was as it should be.

But, you can’t get something for nothing. Eric may have brought his wife back from the dead, but now he owes the dead something back, and that just happened to be his daughter.

Eric has no control over this- if he did, god knows it would have never been his daughter. But, it was, and she was gone for good- no magic touch would be bringing her back.

And, in a moment of grief- anything to ease the uneasable- his wife held his hand.

And then she was gone for good too.

Just like that, Eric had killed the two most important people in his life, quite literally, by his own hand.

This marked the end of his life as a human and the beginning of his career as a grim reaper.

See, contrary to how you may think of what a superpower might be like (i.e, super), the real ones come with very strict rules and terms of service, and Eric’s particular ones were these:

  * He may bring back any being that was once living, including (but not limited to) humans, animals, plants, fungi, etc., by touching the body directly in any way.
  * After reviving the deceased, a one minute grace period is granted, wherein the deceased will be brought to life with no consequence. When this minute is up, another life must be taken. This will happen within a certain radius and randomly. If the revived passes during this minute, this will be evaded.
  * If he touches someone he has previously revived, they will be killed immediately, and cannot be revived again.

In fact, these are the very rules Eric wrote in the back of a notebook during his early days as a grim reaper, largely spent investigating these conditions (now a closed case), and also investigating how much whiskey a person can drink before they become the first person to die twice (a cold case).

But, the thing about being immortal is that you get plenty of time to start over.

And that’s exactly what Eric does- he gets the promotion, the house, the boyfriend, and for a short while, he’s got it all.

But then Alan gets sick, and I won’t bore you with what you already know.

And, for the first time in hundreds of years, Eric uses his gift to bring Alan back from the dead.

That leaves his body count at one thousand- nine hundred and ninety nine unfortunate women, and one unfortunate demon named Sebastian, who provided the long sought-for answer that yes, demons  _ can  _ be killed.

That is of course, a  _ body  _ count. Demons do not have souls, leaving Alan Humphries’s life- while very much extended- still on a timer.

Of course, not that they’d  _ known  _ at first. The thorns of death are sneaky little bastards, and Alan was not given even the slightest indication that something was wrong until 1981, a full ninety three years since he had died the second time- and, he had pondered, nursing himself through the first attack he’d had in nearly a hundred years, just how many times he was going to have to die again.

Alan and Eric were, as they were called in their former line of work,  _ deserters. _ But the thing about abandoning your life’s work to live in London for the foreseeable (and entire) future is that it doesn’t pay a penny. 

What does pay- and very well- is being  _ dessertiers _ . And you only have to add a few letters.

They live as pleasantly and eccentrically as you’d expect two immortal, sentimental old fools to- above their dessert café was their house, utterly filled to the brim with artefacts of every decade and far too many photo albums. While Eric had yet another hidden, delicious gift that had only gotten better with age, Alan had proved himself surprisingly handy when it came to preserving their immense hoard of antiques.

On this particular morning, Alan was waking up in his bed (a single- remember- no touching), very much aware that Eric woke up at least an hour earlier to start baking ready for when they open. Alan’s normally waiting, and it’s a business that’s been running strong a good while now-  _ the desserterie, since 1906. _

He gives a little sigh, making himself presentable and making his way downstairs to start opening up.

“I keep telling you to wake me up when you do.” Alan says, grabbing a cloth and some spray.

“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” Eric replies from the kitchen, rolling out dough, “And I keep telling  _ you  _ that you don’t need to be awake as early as me. And you need your rest.”

Alan huffs, wiping down the table far more vigorously than he needs to, “I’m not going to keel over and die from  _ sleep deprivation. _ ”

Eric shakes his head, grinning fondly, “You’re so stubborn, if anyone was going to come back from the dead  _ twice,  _ it’d be you.”

Right he was there- while Alan might not have ever had the best health, and now nowhere near as active as he was and a little soft in the tummy as a result, he was still  _ just  _ as defiant and stubborn as he had always been, and dying twice had done nothing but boost that.

Alan gives a weak laugh, “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Eric replies back, cheery, “Can I tempt you with the first slice of pie of the day?” He jokes, as if Alan hasn’t always gotten the first slice since 1906.

“Pie for breakfast? I shouldn’t.” Alan smirks, and makes his way to the kitchen as if he hasn’t been eating various confectionery for breakfast since 1906.

Alan sits himself down at the counter, looking like a kid in the sweet shop as Eric slices the pie, putting his slice in front of him, “Your pie, monsieur.”

Alan takes the first mouthful, and by  _ god _ , it’s wonderful- cherries, hot and tart and browned, crumbly pastry…

Sometimes, he truly does wonder if his heart or sweet tooth led him to Eric.

“I’d give that an eight.”

“Oh come  _ on. _ ”

Over a hundred years of Alan rating Eric’s cooking, and he has never once gotten a ten.

“A ten is serious business!” Alan insists, taking another bite, “You know, that means it’s perfect and you can’t improve it!”

Eric shakes his head, “You're my toughest customer yet, Humphries.”

Slow, sweet mornings like this since 1906.

Alan finishes his plate, glancing at the clock, “Well, we’re officially open for business.” He says, walking towards the door to turn over their sign, and then collapses in a chair by the window, sighing as he looks at an empty tip jar.

Maybe saying that making desserts pays wasn’t the entire truth- it  _ did  _ pay, and handsomely at that, but as time passes by (or is dragged kicking and screaming, in Alan and Eric’s case), business begins to dwindle. 

Eric and Alan should know better than  _ anyone _ that nothing lasts forever, but, as much as they insist they’re still only in their thirties, they are ultimately stubborn, sentimental old men who are set in their ways.

Eric turns on the tv on the bar- a genuine 1950’s model that thankfully fit nicely with the cafe’s diner aesthetic, as neither were willing to throw it out. Alan has managed to get it working, and considered it a matter of pride, even if he couldn’t get anything more interesting than the news working.

“Did you hear about that man that died yet?” Eric calls from the kitchen, working on the pastry, “Came in here a couple of times- Scary, that…”

“Mm, it’s on just now,” Alan replies grimly, eyes still on the TV “Still don’t know what did him in.”

Eric gives a melancholy sigh, “Poor bastard…”

Alan gives a funny little grimace, not entirely readable.

Alan, as a person, is not entirely readable either- while his past, arguably, isn’t quite as twisted as Eric’s, that isn’t to say that it hasn’t left him with a fair few scars, making him the only person in the whole world that is as eccentric as Eric.

Alan has had a cruel and unusual relationship with death since about forever- a sickly child that didn’t see himself making it past twenty five, and once he did had no idea how to handle it, resulting in death number one. He then got a pleasant fifty or so years before being struck (again) with sickness, with the following years building up to his death being more like the preparation to the reluctant reunion with an estranged friend.

Of course, that was not so.

And now, Alan Humphries- flower enthusiast, baker’s husband, talented crocheter and wanted enemy of the state, on his third chance at life, is living with the same recklessness attitude as the teenager who believes that they’re invincible- a million photo albums, not one moment wasted. He has been given chance after chance, and what does it matter anymore? How much longer has he got? How many more chances?

Alan shakes his head, bringing himself back down to earth, “We’ve got customers coming.” He warns.

“Bit early…”

“Complaining?”

“No, no,” Eric smiles, “Just a comment. If you’ve got a moment later, though, I could do with you back here.”

“Baking or just for support?” He jokes.

Eric rolls his eyes, grinning, “I don’t know, I’ve seen some of your baking-“

“Oh, so no help for you, then?” Alan teases back.

“Ah, that’s not what I  _ said _ -“

Alan laughs right as the bell rings, and just like that, it’s time for work, just as it has been since 1906.

And just like every day since 1906, they close up at seven, Alan waters the plants and Eric cleans the kitchen. Eric makes dinner, which they eat at opposite ends of the dinner table, and then they sit on opposite sides of the sofa through the evening. They might read, or watch TV, or Eric might knit- there are no limits to a person’s skill set once immortal- perhaps Alan might clean if he feels particularly out of sorts. They never listen to music together. People like to dance to music, and people like to touch when they dance. 

Once they get tired, they take it in turns using their cramped bathroom, while the other might lay out clothes for the next morning, or consider how they have far too many photographs in their room. Some would have to go, Eric would always remind Alan in a mournful, almost bittersweet way, it’s clutter.

Clutter as it might be, neither can bring themselves to retire them to the photo albums. Not the one of them on the day of the cafe opening, not the one from  _ way _ back in 1887, with Eric’s arm around Alan. Not even the one of Ronnie’s graduation. 

And when they’re finally ready to sleep in their twin size beds, at least a bedside table length apart, they wish each other sweet dreams, and they don’t kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Alan wakes up in a bad mood. 

He wakes up alone, the rain pattering against the window, the day grey and miserable already. 

He dreamt about Eric last night. Specifically about being held by Eric, and that is why he’s in a bad mood- the human brain is wired in such a way that it thrives from loving touch, and Alan has been without that for over a century now. He almost feels as if he could experience acute heart failure from holding his own hand when it goes numb these days. 

But, it is what it is. 

Alan sits up, looking out the window next to him with dreary eyes. It’s past time he was up, if he were to be any use setting up this morning, and he considers the time lost as he makes his way to the bathroom. 

But, there’s nothing to be done about that now. Better late than never, he decides, brushing his teeth.

Alan has never been without time, even when he was immortal. As William always liked to remind them, death works on a tight schedule and it simply can’t be rearranged. 

He wonders what William might be doing now. 

Maybe he retired- he could, by now. Most don’t, but it’s not unheard of. It’s much more respectful than deserting. Maybe he got promoted even higher, as Alan had spent so many years wishing for as a junior. Maybe now he’s settled down, as him and Eric could have done, when they still had all of eternity to waste together. 

Or maybe he’s the same as he’s always been. Just because he can afford to be stagnant.

Alan spits out the toothpaste, vehement. As if it’s William’s very own fault that he has forever, and Alan doesn’t. 

He shakes his head at himself as he makes his way down the stairs- he really shouldn’t be harbouring such negative thoughts, especially about old friends.

“Good morning,” Eric announces as soon as Alan gets downstairs, annoying cheerful as he rolls out the pastry, “You’re looking mighty cheerful.”

Alan rolls his eyes at his sarcasm, “I noticed,” He replies dryly, sitting down, “I didn’t sleep well last night.” He’s lying, but Eric knows what he means- he does wonder  _ why  _ he even lies to begin with, but the code has gone unspoken for a long time. 

Eric sighs- somewhere between resignation and pity- putting the top on top of this pie. It’s his favourite (and presumably breakfast), blueberry. 

“There’s one in the oven already,” Eric says after a brief pause, “Pumpkin.”

Alan grimaces, “Who eats  _ pumpkin _ ?”

“Everyone!”

“I’ve never seen anyone willingly eat pumpkin in my whole life,  _ least  _ of all you.” Alan wrinkles his nose, “Sounds like some sort of…  _ Americanism  _ to me.” He says, with the same sort of tone he might use if Eric has told him it was lightly seasoned with arsenic. 

“ _ But, _ ” Eric says, taking it out of the oven, “They sell this time of year.  _ That’s  _ who eats pumpkin.”

Alan gives a funny little huff, folding his arms- he’s only ever willing to be proved wrong when he gains something from it, and Eric’s pie is definitely a worthy gain. “Let’s try it, then.”

Eric gives a smug grin, cutting a slice and taking a forkful, “Open up.”

Alan’s expression practically collapses, “Oh that’s-  _ infuriatingly  _ good-“

“I told you!”

“Shut  _ up _ \- it’s only because  _ you  _ made it-“

The doorbell rings, and Alan turns on his heel, “Do  _ not  _ eat the rest of that slice.” He calls behind him, knowing Eric far too well.

The morning drags by, gradually picking up towards the afternoon and bleeding into the evening, and Eric closes up at seven, as usual- normally Alan would help, but he’d gone upstairs for a round of painkillers and a nap after a mild attack (only after a gruelling two hours of Eric convincing him- Alan could well be at the very gates of death and hold it off until he’d finished what he was doing). 

Eric falls down on the sofa, turning the TV on, and the inevitable creak of Alan coming down the stairs almost immediately after. Something looks wrong, somehow, as he curls up in his chair. 

“How was work?” Alan asks, after a brief, vaguely tense silence. 

“Same old,” Eric sighs, stretching, “How’d you sleep?”

Alan doesn’t even dignify the quality of his sleep with words, rather just grimacing, but he softens when it draws a laugh out of Eric, “You look tired.” He replies.

Alan takes a moment, as if gathering the emotional strength to speak, “I’m in a lot of pain.”

Eric feels that straight through the chest, his own face falling, and he tunes out of the TV, almost staring through it. He knows Alan understands when he doesn’t reply. 

He knows all Alan wants is a hug, and it’s the one thing he can’t have. 

It’s not like this every evening- far from it, in fact. Alan and Eric have spent well over a human lifetime together, they can manage with the restrictions put on them, but it’s  _ so  _ cruel. Especially considering that they started their relationship based on the idea of having forever together, only to have Alan be put on timer after timer- it’s the youthful, excited uncertainty of  _ forever _ becoming the dreaded, weary uncertainty of  _ someday.  _

_ Someday _ , Alan is going to have to die, and he’s been running away from it for a long, long time. 

Death has been an inescapable truth for Alan for a while now, hand in hand with deprivation. He knows a human can survive three days without water, two months without food, but he has no idea how long someone can survive without loving touch. Some days, he genuinely wonders if it’ll be the thing to finally do him in. 

He shakes his head, coming back down to Earth. It doesn’t do him any good to be obsessing over this. Nobody dies from not being touched. 

“That’s him again,” Eric says, breaking the silence as he nods towards the TV, “That kid that died.” 

Alan gives a brief look of interest- he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to think about that sort of thing again. 

“Do you ever miss being a reaper?”

That hits Alan with a jolt. Eric’s always been straightforward, and they’re practically surrounded by memories of the dispatch, but they barely talk about it. 

“We still are reapers. Technically.” Replies Alan, becoming difficult as soon as something uncomfortable comes up, as usual. He especially doesn’t feel equipped to talk about this right now.

“I mean, I don’t miss the job, fuck that-“ Continues Eric, more to himself than anyone, “But it was decent living… nice house, good mates, lots to do…”

“I suppose everything has a downside.” Alan replies stiffly.

Eric looks at him, reading him like a book, “You don’t look so keen to talk about it.”

Alan bites his lip- “Of  _ course  _ I miss it, of  _ course _ I miss my friends, I miss my  _ house _ , I miss my  _ garden _ , I miss waking up late on a Sunday morning in the same bed as the man I love, I miss a workplace full of people I adore, I miss a kiss before bed, I miss everything  _ but  _ the job.”

That’s what he  _ wants  _ to say. 

“I miss Ronnie.” Is all that comes out, after a brief pause. “And Grell. Even Spears.”

There’s another silence, and then, “You know that murder, they’re offering money-“

“Are you out of your  _ mind,  _ Eric?”

Alan stares at him incredulously, “Eric Slingby, you have had some  _ awful-  _ just  _ terrible _ \- ideas in your time, but  _ this? _ ”

“Come on, how hard can it be?” Eric insists, which is how he always proposes a very long-winded and complicated plan that could  _ never  _ work, “How’s it different to being a reaper, genuinely?”

Alan gapes at him, stunned, “Eric, we never had to solve a  _ murder mystery _ as reapers.”

“Well,  _ yeah _ , obviously, but all you’d have to do is watch the cinematic record back, it’s that easy-“

Alan smacks his hand to his head, dripping in sarcasm, “Of course! How could I forget! Just remind me, Eric, how, exactly, did we go about that?”

“Okay,  _ fine _ , so we don’t have all the stuff, but there’s bound to be  _ another _ reaper on it-“

“Eric, I don’t know how clearly you remember the exact unravelling of events, but we’re  _ enemies of the state.  _ For over  _ a hundred years _ now.”

Eric holds back a laugh, beginning to see the funny side of it, “I don’t know? Maybe they forgot?”

Alan gives a breathy laugh, shaking his head, “You’re absolutely  _ ridiculous _ , I love you.”

“I love you too,” Eric replies, smiling, “I’m going to bed soon, I’m exhausted.”

Alan looks vaguely morose, “Sorry I dropped out on you…”

“Hey,  _ I  _ told  _ you  _ to go to bed,” Eric points out, “You’ve not done anything wrong. I’m just being an old man, that’s all.”

Alan giggles, “Two hundred and thirty four years young,” He teases, and he’d liked to have kissed him, but instead he just hovers awkwardly like the gay kid with a crush on his best friend- only in this case, him and the best friend have been together for hundreds of years, “I won’t be far behind you, I’m tired, too.”

Eric goes upstairs, calling back one last goodnight, leaving Alan alone. He goes about his routine as he does day in, day out- he clears up the clutter around the living room and kitchen, waters their herbs and turns out all the lights. 

God, Eric’s right. 

He’s so  _ bored _ .

He just  _ can’t  _ spend the rest of his life on the same mundane schedule every single day knowing that he’s on a timer- and an  _ unpredictable  _ timer, at that. He tries not to live in the past, but he misses his old life  _ so  _ desperately- he misses his  _ friends _ , he misses his life with Eric, he misses being hugged- by  _ anyone,  _ not just Eric- and he misses being  _ blissfully  _ unaware of the passing of time. In this old flat, surrounded by keepsakes and clutter collected from the past one hundred years, it will always creep up on Alan at the worst possible time that he has been alive for a very, very long time, and that the majority of it is borrowed. 

_ Borrowed for nothing _ , Alan thinks to himself, sour,  _ I’ll die either way.  _

Alan is not known for a bad attitude, but he can’t help it under the circumstances, and how utterly stir crazy he feels stuck in the human realm for the rest of his days- he wants to go  _ home.  _

He shakes his head- that’s  _ enough _ . He has a wonderful life, and he’s lucky enough to have spent much longer with the love of his life than he would have done under any normal circumstances. 

He  _ is  _ grateful. Just not all the time. 

And that’s how he leaves the issue resolved with himself, pushing himself off the sofa and making sure the doors are locked. 

He is overtired, in pain and having a bad day. He needs to rest. 

That is what he tells himself every time. 

As long as he can keep repeating that to himself, he has asserted since god knows when, it will not get any worse. 

Not any better. But not any worse, either. 

He holds onto Eric tight that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry I disappeared :) updates r now happening whenever they Happen bc as usual I am Very Busy :( believe me if I could update every single day I would but anyway ily guys tysm for still reading :) please let me know what u like so I can keep doing My Best

**Author's Note:**

> updates are gonna be rly inconsistent and long sorry :( but please lmk what u think!!!


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